Page 5 of The Maine Event (Romancing the Workplace #2)

THREE

The motel door clicks shut behind me and I let out a heavy sigh. I kick off my heels, not caring where they land, and strip off my blouse and skirt, tossing them onto the faded armchair in the corner.

As I settle into the cozy room, I can’t help but feel a flicker of excitement amid the disappointment. Sure, not being the point woman on the GreenShoots pitch is a major setback. But landing Harcourt Foods? That could be the key to everything I’ve been working towards.

I pull out my laptop, firing off a quick email to Emily to gather more information on Harcourt Foods.

We’re going to have a serious talk when I’m back in the office about that little ticketing screw-up, but right now I need her on her A-game, not worrying about if she’s going to be fired.

If she can get me the information I need, and quickly, it will certainly put her in a better light.

Tomorrow, I’ll try to reach out to Jonathan Harcourt directly.

But for now, I need to rest and recharge. I have a feeling I’m going to need all my energy for what’s to come. The wrinkled floral comforter isn’t exactly inviting, but all I want right now is to close my eyes and forget this train wreck of a day ever happened.

I sprawl out on the lumpy mattress in just my bra and panties, too exhausted to even slip under the covers. Maybe if I rest my eyes for a bit, I can rally enough energy to find a decent meal and figure out my next steps. I allow my eyelids to flutter closed…

BAM! The door flies open and my heart leaps into my throat as I bolt upright. A man in a motel uniform backs into the room, awkwardly dragging a cleaning cart behind him. Earbuds dangle from his ears, a tinny beat pulsing from them. He’s humming off-key as he turns around.

Our eyes lock and his jaw drops, mirroring my own shock.

“Oh my gosh, I am so sorry!” he stammers, averting his gaze. A blush creeps up his neck. “I thought this room was vacant.”

“Do you make a habit of barging in on half-naked women?” I snap, scrambling to yank the comforter over my exposed body, my face burning.

His blush deepens, and he runs a hand through his hair, the tension visibly knotting his shoulders.

“No, no, I swear I don’t. This was just… a massive screw-up. Room was listed as vacant, and I didn’t hear anything from inside.”

There’s something about the way he talks—his words are casual, but his delivery is strangely deliberate, like he’s choosing each one with more care than the situation calls for.

I can’t help but notice how quickly he adjusts, how his voice evens out, tone confident but not overbearing.

It’s like he’s used to performing calm, even when he’s mortified.

For a second, I think maybe it’s just some kind of customer service charm—the way he stays relaxed, apologizes so smoothly. But it’s more than that. He’s not just smoothing over a mistake; he’s stepping into a role, like he’s done this a hundred times before, memorized his lines.

Before I can analyze it further, he clears his throat. “Look, I’m really sorry. I’ll make sure it doesn’t happen again.” He ducks his head and practically bolts out the door, nearly tripping over the cleaning cart in his haste to exit, leaving me alone to process whatever the hell just happened.

I let out a shaky breath, trying to get my heart rate under control.

It’s probably nothing. Just a guy embarrassed out of his mind and doing his best to cover it.

But still… There was something about the way he carried himself, the way he delivered his apology, that didn’t quite fit with his cleaning uniform.

It’s probably nothing. I push the thought away and focus on calming down. I’ve had enough surprises for one night.

I collapse back onto the bed with a groan, my heart still racing. I have to admit, he was kind of cute, in an awkward, embarrassed sort of way. But after the day I’ve had, cute isn’t going to cut it. I need a strong drink and a hearty meal to erase this memory.

I can’t possibly sleep now, so I slide off the bed, ready to pull myself together and salvage what’s left of this disastrous day. One thing’s for sure—this is a motel check-in I won’t soon forget. Although, for both our sakes, I kind of wish I could.

Glancing at the clock, I realize with a start that I’ve been out cold for nearly two hours. Eight p.m. already? My stomach growls in protest, reminding me that the last thing I ate was a stale bagel before boarding my ill-fated flight.

I drag myself to the bathroom, catching a glimpse of my disheveled reflection in the mirror.

Raccoon eyes, courtesy of my smudged mascara.

Hair sticking out at odd angles from my haphazard nap.

Lovely. With a sigh, I turn on the shower, hoping the hot water will wash away the stress of the day and revive me enough to venture out in search of sustenance.

As the steam fills the small space, I step under the spray, letting it soothe my tight muscles. My mind drifts back to the man who barged in earlier. Dan, was it? There was something vaguely familiar about him, but I can’t quite put my finger on it. Probably just one of those faces.

I lather up, the scent of the generic motel soap filling my nostrils. It’s a far cry from my usual coconut-infused body wash, but it’ll do. As I rinse off, my stomach lets out another insistent rumble. Time to stop daydreaming and focus on the mission at hand: food.

Toweling off, I rummage through my suitcase for something presentable. Jeans and a cozy sweater will have to suffice. I’m in no mood to dress up, and besides, who am I trying to impress in this quaint little town?

A quick blow-dry and a swipe of lip gloss later, I’m as ready as I’ll ever be. I grab my purse and room key, steeling myself for the chilly Maine evening. As I step out into the parking lot, the crisp spring air nips at my cheeks, a stark contrast to the stuffy motel room.

Now, to find a decent meal in this unfamiliar place. I pull out my phone, hoping for a little culinary guidance. “Come on, Siri,” I mutter, “don’t let me down. I need some comfort food, asap.”

With a few voice commands, a list of nearby restaurants pops up. I scroll through the options, my mouth watering at the thought of a warm, hearty dish. Seafood, maybe? When in Maine, right? I settle on a diner that boasts the best clam chowder in town, according to the glowing reviews.

As I navigate the quiet streets of Biddeford, my mind wanders back to the chaos waiting for me back in Chicago.

The PR crisis, the demanding clients, the endless emails.

But for now, at this moment, my only concern is filling my grumbling stomach and maybe, just maybe, finding a glimmer of peace in this unexpected detour.

But first things first—bring on the seafood.

The bell above the door jingles as I step into Julie’s Diner, a wave of warmth and the aroma of sizzling bacon enveloping me. It’s a cozy little spot, all checkered floors and vinyl booths, the kind of place that feels like home even if you’ve never been before.

I slide into a booth, the red cushion squeaking beneath me. Before I can even reach for a menu, a waitress with a smile brighter than the neon sign outside appears at my table.

“Well, hello there, sugar!” she chirps, her blonde ponytail bobbing with enthusiasm. “What can I get started for you tonight?”

I blink, taken aback by her energy. It’s nearly nine o’clock. How can anyone be this chipper at this time of night?

“Oh, um, I read your clam chowder is the best in town,” I manage, mustering a tired smile.

“You betcha! One bowl of our famous chowder, coming right up!” She winks, jotting down my order. “Anything else, hon?”

I shake my head, and with a nod, she whirls away, leaving me to take in my surroundings. It’s then that I spot a familiar face five tables across.

It’s him. The guy from the motel room. Dan. He’s sitting in a booth, sharing what looks like an enormous sundae with a young girl, maybe eleven or twelve years old. She’s giggling as he dabs a dollop of whipped cream on her nose, and the affection between them is palpable.

I watch as they interact, the easy banter, the inside jokes. It’s clear they have a special bond, the kind that comes from years of love and trust. A father and daughter, I surmise, noting the way he looks at her like she’s the center of his universe.

It’s undeniably sweet and I can see the appeal—the laughter, the love, the sense of belonging. But having kids is the death knell of careers. At least for women. And I have so much more I still need to achieve.

As I sit there, lost in thought, the waitress returns with a steaming bowl of chowder. “Here you go, darlin’,” she says, setting it down with a flourish. “Careful, it’s hot.”

I nod my thanks, inhaling the rich, comforting aroma. It smells like home, not my home, but it oozes warmth and safety, and all the things I didn’t realize I was craving.

As I take my first spoonful, savoring the creamy, briny flavor, I can’t help but steal another glance at Dan and his daughter. They’re lost in their own little world, oblivious to the rest of the diner, to the rest of the world.

And for a fleeting moment, I wonder what it would be like to be a part of something like that. To have someone look at me the way Dan looks at his daughter, like I’m the most important person in the room.

I shake my head, pushing the thought aside. I don’t have time for silly daydreams or small-town sentimentality.

I have a job to do, a life to get back to. This is just a temporary detour, a blip on the radar. Nothing more.

Or so I tell myself, as I focus on my chowder, trying to ignore the nagging feeling that maybe, just maybe, there’s something more to life than market research and late-night conference calls.

Dan catches my eye, and I quickly look away, suddenly fascinated by the patterns in my chowder. But it’s too late. He’s already making his way over, his daughter trailing behind him.